by Robert Ryan
Just on dusk the weather turned even worse. The rain became heavy, and though its intensity varied, it did not remit. It was a bad night, being both wet and cold, and the morning after was no better.
The rain was too heavy to travel, but they had to do so anyway. By mid-morning it had grown even heavier, and instead of becoming lighter beneath the trees as the sun climbed, it was gloomy as a midwinter’s night.
The rain fell in waves, and each one seemed a greater downpour than the last. The earth beneath their feet had turned to mud, but they struggled forward, heads down, plodding away relentlessly.
The attack came in the midst of it all. Elugs loomed to the left, springing out of the tree-shadows. There were perhaps twenty of them. From the right several beasts leaped, howling suddenly as they sprang.
Even the Halathrin, the best scouts in the world, gave no warning under the terrible conditions. Their skills were rendered near useless by the weather, and they were as surprised as Brand and Kareste.
Yet the Halathrin reacted quickly. Those nearest the elugs drew their weapons swiftly, and they met the attack with fierce determination. The beasts went for Brand and Kareste, for they slipped between the unprepared Halathrin and came straight at their target.
Brand drew the blade of his forefathers, and it glittered coldly in the dim light. But at the same time fire sprang to the tip of Aranloth’s staff. The power in him came unbidden now at times of danger, and he knew he would never be able to stop it from doing so. All he could do was use it sparingly, that would be the key. By doing so he might be able to ensure that he used the magic rather than that it used him. But he had no time to worry about such things.
A hound leapt at him, and his instinct with his sword was stronger than his awakening knowledge of magic. He swayed to the side, his arm loose and relaxed, and he slashed the full length of the sharp blade along the creature’s belly.
Blood sprayed from the hound. When it landed, its entrails slipped and gushed from its belly over its legs. It tried to turn and leap again, but it stumbled, its black-clawed paws caught up in a mess of gore and intestines. Brand spun away from it. It was dead even if it did not know it yet.
Kareste sent a ball of fire flying into another hound. It pranced to the side, but the lòhrengai still caught it a glancing blow and in a moment the ruff of fur around its neck caught fire. It howled, a terrible sound from so close, and would have attacked anyway, but Kareste kicked it in the head even as it voiced its pain. It writhed on the ground, but did not get up again. Together they faced the remaining two hounds.
Brand was slower to act. Kareste sent a sheet of fire at them, and it caught them full on. They fell, rose to their feet again, their hair alight, and then they yelped and rolled on the wet earth. Brand stepped toward them, the flame on Aranloth’s staff flickering silvery-white in the gloom, but the beasts came to their feet and fled.
Kareste and Brand turned around, but the Halathrin needed no help. A dozen elugs lay dead and the rest were disappearing into the shadowy forest from where their attack had started just moments ago.
The pine woods were quiet except for the receding noise of their attackers as they fled.
In the ensuing silence Harly held up her hand. The rain had momentarily eased, and without the noise of it they heard another sound: the beat of war drums.
“We’re close,” Harly said quietly.
“Yes,” Brand answered. “Closer than I thought. It’s hard to find landmarks in this forest.”
Kareste came forward. “The rain doesn’t help, either. But something has happened. Can’t you hear it?”
“Hear what?” Brand asked. “I can hear the drums.”
She shook her head adamantly. “Yes. The drums. But listen. Can’t you tell the difference? There are far fewer of them?”
Brand tilted his head and listened carefully. “You may be right. But it’s hard to tell. Everything seems muted within the forest.”
“Something has happened,” Kareste insisted. “There are fewer drums. Much fewer – I swear it. I don’t know what’s been going on, but something has happened. I guess this much at least – the enemy has not had everything their own way.”
Brand did not know about that. He was not sure of the drums either, but if she said so, he believed her. But for once, he was glad to hear the drums anyway, either lots of them or few of them. For it meant the siege still continued. Cardoroth still defied the enemy, and had not gone under.
He turned to Harly. “I’m sorry. Perhaps we should have done what you advised. The forest turned out more dangerous than I expected.”
She smiled at him. “Maybe. Maybe not. But this much I think is true. These elugs and beasts weren’t the same as the ones we saw with Khamdar. I don’t think he sent them here to wait in ambush in case we came this way. I think they were just a patrol, and we were unlucky enough to come their way. It was bad luck, and we could just as easily have had the same kind of ill-fortune if we had gone the way I suggested. There are sure to be patrols all around the enemy host, and we could have run into them no matter where we went.”
They pushed on soon after. The rain grew heavy again, and as they moved along it seemed to Brand that they were like mist-phantoms moving through a wet forest. The Halathrin were almost invisible, and they made no noise. Soon, he knew, they would reach a point where they could look out and see the enemy.
But what then? Dare he put into action the plan that was slowly forming in his mind?
23. Why do they Wait?
The beat of drums, of elug war drums – of hate and malice and fear, snaked through the air and up to the Cardurleth. But to be sure, the drums were far fewer than they once were, and their clamor had a thready sound to it like the heartbeat of an old man upon whom death crept near; like, in fact, the pulse Gilhain heard thrum in his chest when he overexerted himself.
The drums were at the heart of the superstitious elug nation. Gilhain knew this, as did all Alithoras. But Aranloth had recently told him more. The lòhren had traced their origin for him, back into the prehistory of the elug race. It was lore that only the lòhrens would possess, and the elùgroths, of course. Those two opposing forces who went back as far as the elugs, or farther, themselves.
The drums were in the blood of the elugs, a part of their race-memory. They predated by far the Halathrin exodus into Alithoras. The unceasing beat was a religion to them, and it marked and measured their life, and the lives of their ancestors back into dark oblivion.
The drums were not just instruments of war. They beat wildly at elug birth ceremonies, and they muttered darky at elug burials. The drums were the heartbeat of their life, and there were words and meanings in their rhythm and tone beyond human comprehension. Small wonder that they were also tools of the elùgroths, implements of control, for the sorcerers ruled all in the south with an iron grip and had long since usurped all means of domination in the races subject to them.
The drums thrummed now before the Cardurleth, fewer by far, and the elugs were disheartened. Gilhain understood better now why that was so. Fear ran among the enemy. Superstition and dread were its companions. The elugs were scared of the riders who had attacked them, brought low their drums and returned in fire and storm into the fortress from whence they had come. They were terrified of another such sortie, and they feared just as much being sent to attack themselves.
But their greatest fear was the elùgroths, and the elùgroths drove them on. War was inevitable. Attack was inevitable. Death was inevitable, for the sorcerers would not give up. Nor, Gilhain knew, would he have done so in their place. No matter the setbacks that they had received, they still dominated the situation. And when Khamdar returned, their strength would be all the greater. Yet still, there was a sense of desperation among the enemy. A feeling that time was running out.
The enemy host now began to seethe like a swarm of ants below. The elùgroths drove them on, the shazrahads whipped them forward. The horde was imbued with a dark spirit, with the ver
y will of the sorcerers themselves. They prepared now for a great assault, an assault that might never end. Wave after wave of attackers would come without respite, and perhaps even the whole host, charge after charge, was going to be thrown against the Cardurleth. Nothing would be held in reserve.
“It builds and builds without end,” Taingern said. “Why do they wait? Why not unleash the storm upon us?”
“Because we feel it, and that’s reason enough,” Gilhain answered. “The storm builds, and death is in the air, just as a real storm builds in the east.”
He pointed to the dark clouds piled deep, cloud upon cloud toward the sea. Bad weather was coming from the ocean, but worse trouble was on the ground before them.
“They will let fear erode our will before they strike, but when they come it will be with thunder and lightning, and their charge will be a gale of bodies, of elug warriors driven by the malice of the elùgroths like leaves before a great wind.”
Aurellin clenched her fists. “And they do something else also. To reduce us, and to fortify themselves. Look! They gather now the dead riders from the field!”
It was true, Gilhain realized. The bodies of the Black Corps littered the ground, for three hundred had left but few returned. Many of their horses were dead also, laying like carrion on the trampled grassland before the Cardurleth. Yet man and horse both began to jerk and twitch.
Gilhain swallowed hard. Dead men rose to their feet. Dead horses heaved up off the ground to stand on trembling legs. Blood seeped from mortal wounds. Cold entrails spilled from the bellies of horses.
The men pulled arrows from their bodies and let them fall. They straightened broken limbs. All the while they made no sound.
At length, the riders mounted. Slowly, unhurriedly, but with great precision they formed a wedge and took up a position before the Cardurleth, before the Arach Neben, the gate that in life they sought but never reached.
And when the riders found and held their position, though they were silent, the elugs voiced their age old battle-cry that had been heard before cities had fallen for long ages in Alithoras:
Ashrak ghùl skar! Skee ghùl ashrak!
Skee ghùl ashrak! Ashrak ghùl skar!
The chant flowed ceaselessly. It had neither beginning nor end. All the while the beating of the drums that remained grew louder and faster. The stamping of boots thundered, and a low rumble filled the cloud-dimmed sky above the horde.
The king knew what the chant meant.
Death and destruction! Blood and death!
Blood and death! Death and destruction!
Gilhain drew himself up. He did not speak. Now was not the time. Yet he would not be cowed. If death had come for him at last, still he would not be cowed.
He watched in silence as the enemy brought forth timber gathered from the pine forests that surrounded Lake Alithorin. It was green, and fresh leaves still sprouted from the many twigs and branches left on it. What this was for, he could not guess, but Hvargil’s riders carried it fearfully.
Although Gilhain did not know what purpose the ceremony unfolding before him served, and the re-animated corpses of his own riders sickened and troubled him greatly, he noted with some slight satisfaction that Hvargil himself was not there.
The enemy cavalry took their burden of timber, and they circled the dead riders of the Black Corps. It was an eerie thing to see: the living riders gathering round the dead that sat silently upon their slain horses. And the first piled their burden of timber near to the second.
The drums beat faster, and Aranloth stirred. He spoke, his voice subdued, barely a mumble.
“There is a third thing the enemy will yet do.”
“What?” Gilhain asked.
“I sense that Khamdar has returned. He is behind this, for the other elùgroths lack both the strength and skill. His power is enormous, his will dark, and his anger great at the loss of Shurilgar’s staff. But the other elùgroths aid him.”
“What will come next?”
Aranloth either did not hear, or chose not to answer, but he seemed to gather himself in readiness.
The drums beat faster, and their note changed. At the same time, lifting up and soaring from the midst of the dark host, came the sound of elùgroth chanting. It was a deep and strong sound, harsh and unharmonious, but powerful all the same.
“Do they attack us?” Gilhain asked.
Aranloth answered this time. “Not quite,” he said. “Not in body at least. But in mind. Watch, if your heart is strong, and you will see.”
Gilhain watched. All on the Cardurleth watched.
Smoke roiled from the ground where Hvargil’s riders had placed the timber. It churned under the hooves of their horses. Hvargil’s cavalry flowed back into the main host and disappeared, but the smoke, and the dead riders, remained.
Sparks gathered on the conifer branches laid on the ground. Black smoke billowed into the dim sky, and from the thickening clouds a drizzle fell. Soon it became rain, falling in torrential waves, but the sparks and growing flames did not go out.
Smoke billowed, thick and choking, into the air. Fire, like a living thing, took hold of the timber. The branches of the conifers seemed to move and thrash, falling in on themselves as the fire consumed them. But from that seething mass the fire flickered, rose and spread. And then, red and wicked, it leapt from dead horse to dead horse, from dead man to dead man.
The horses did not scream. The men did not cry out. They stood in silence while the flames took hold of them.
Gilhain wanted to look away, but he could not. The fire sizzled and popped. The heads of some of the men snapped back. Limbs twisted and writhed as the fire played over them. Then, unbelievably, the horses began to trot, flame spraying from their nostrils as their dead lungs breathed out, sparks flying from their hooves.
They were all dead, men and horses both. But they began rush forward, and though the flame burned with a great heat, it consumed but slowly.
Yet, the fire did consume. The riders drew their swords, and the flesh of their hands melded like hot wax onto the hilts. Their hair burned away. Their faces, once proud in life, began to melt. The skin tightened and drew tight about their skulls in smoke and flickering flame. The stench of death filled the air, and it reached even to the top of the Cardurleth. Yet the riders came forward without pause.
The living riders of Hvargil were now out of sight. But the dead riders held everyone’s attention. What would they do next?
The wedge before the gate wheeled and turned with precision. It was a mockery of what they did in life, yet the skill remained to them. Gilhain gasped. Was it possible that the spirits of these men were somehow still in their bodies? Surely no mere sorcery, no animation of dead flesh could mimic the hard-earned expertise of the riders?
They came again toward the battlement. Now even the thick hides of the horses smoked and charred. Hair and flesh burned away. Gilhain saw in many places the red muscles and the white-gleaming bones that drove the animals on. He felt sick, but still he watched. Terrible as it all was to behold, he must watch, for something would come next. The elùgroths no doubt executed this plan with more in mind than the desecration of the dead.
The horses snorted red fire. The wounds of the dead men seeped steaming blood, and its falling drops hissed in the air before turning to dark smoke. All along the Cardurleth the men watched in horror. They were silent and pale. They had no words to voice their fear or disgust. Some vomited over the walls. Some fainted. Gilhain gritted his teeth and waited. There was nothing else he could do.
And then the dead riders gathered pace. Swift they came now. The war drums beat with frenetic glee, and behind the wedge of riders the elug horde broke into a charge, screaming in maddened rage, filled and fueled by the sorcerous will of the elùgroths.
24. Have I not the Right?
Brand stood with the others. It was dark, but they had come to the fringe of the forest. The shadowy woodlands lay behind them, and ahead was Cardoroth. The people he lov
ed were close, and the sight of the city that he called home brought a film of tears to his eyes. It was not his home by birth, but he had grown to love it even so.
The city was vast, but it was so gloomy that he could barely see it. It was day time, but the dark clouds had gathered thickly and they unleashed their burden of rain in great torrents.
Out of that darkness came a flash of light. It was all silver and white, and the brightness illuminated much that he could not see before. The enemy host stood out, and the Cardurleth, all of red stone as was much of the city. It seemed that the walls were smeared in blood, and perhaps they were, but they looked like that all the time. It was not a pretty sight, but he loved it anyway.
The Halathrin gasped. It was an ancient city, but to them it was new. They had not seen it before, and well did Brand remember his own reaction to the red stone when first he saw it.
“It always looks like that,” he said, but they gave no answer.
And then, as the light faded, they saw the enemy swarm. The horde commenced an attack against the wall, and even in the gloom and rain-swept air, they could still see the outline of the host as it charged, and dimly they heard the wild yells and cries of a maddened foe. Like a deeper shadow amid the gloom it seethed forward, a thing of deep darkness that would swallow the city before it, and then the world after.
There was silence among the watchers. Eventually, Kareste broke it.
“What now?” she asked.
“Now,” Brand answered quietly, “I go into the heart of that army, and I find Khamdar and his brethren, and I kill them. If I do that, if I cut the head from the snake, then the army will wither.” He paused, allowing his words to sink in, and then he spoke again. “But I do this alone. I don’t ask any to come with me.”
They looked at him in stunned silence. It was Kareste, once again, who spoke.
“That is your plan?”
